


If Thine is The Glory

by meirenyu



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Bondage, Demonic Possession, Industrial Strength Blasphemy, M/M, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, black magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 06:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12575536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meirenyu/pseuds/meirenyu
Summary: Father Charles Neal is needed to exorcize a parishioner. He has no clue he's walking right into the lion's den.





	If Thine is The Glory

**Author's Note:**

> BLASPHEMY ALERT. LIKE, IN A FEW LEAGUES THERE'S A BLASPHEMY ICEBERG, AND YOUR ASS IS THE TITANIC.
> 
> Also, the soundtrack to this fic is Leonard Cohen's final album _[You Want It Darker](https://youtu.be/1F0sEmPV2ig)_. Recommended background track for this blasphemy iceberg.

“If you are the dealer, I’m out of the game  
If you are the healer, it means I’m broken and lame  
If thine is the glory, then mine must be the shame  
You want it darker  
We kill the flame”

\- Leonard Cohen, “You Want It Darker”

 

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Father.”

The woman’s eyes were hollow and rimmed with red. Her watery smile twisted her face into a ghoulish mask of grief as she quietly closed the warped front door behind them. “He’s taken a turn for the worse since your last visit. He’s…”

She faltered, and Father Charles Neal grasped her shoulder with listless fingers. The woman was beside herself, that much he could see. He couldn’t escape the feeling that whatever passed his lips in this moment, to this grieving and frightened lady, to one who looked at him with a desperation and fragile hope in her eyes… He cleared his throat and nodded. In seminary, they’d never covered anything… like this.

“And the young man’s father?” He asked softly as she shuffled ahead, down the decrepit wooden hallway of the old farmhouse. The peeling wallpaper seemed to reach out to him as they passed. He supposed it wasn’t accurate to call her adult son a _young_ man. The priest and the farmhand must have been no more than a year apart, but the distance and authority of the epithet steeled Father Neal’s fraying nerves. He clung to that fleeting boon even as he followed the woman further into the creaking house.

“He’s with him now… in the sitting room,” she said in a broken kind of way, a choked sob, a feeble forfeit. “ _Holding him down_.”

 

The strains of Spanish guitar lilted in the cool night breeze, stirring the bone white foxgloves which grew in tall bunches beneath the low, open window of the ancient parishioner’s cottage. Sister Mary Catherine had been downright fussy in keeping the garden thriving through the end of the unbearable summer. She’d probably give a deep, wrinkled scowl at being called anything other than diligent, and now as the torrid heat of the evening gave deference to the nascent breath of autumn, Father Neal had taken to smiling fondly when watching her through his open window every evening, ambling out to the gardens with her gnarled cane and tin watering pot.

“You really ought to join the others for dinner tonight, Father,” she had called in a nannying croak across the beds of herbs. He had politely declined in favor of meditation and study. This went on for weeks after he’d arrived fresh off the boat from seminary. The tiny village had been abuzz with gossip that day. Within the month, she’d hung it up for a lost cause, settling for their silent shared breakfasts and lunches. Father Neal took his dinner alone in spartan quarters, a paltry fare of bread and meat before devotion to his nightly prayers. Bent over his devotional, he knew God preferred his obedience in this way. In this vocation, a little mental clarity went a long way, and solitude cleansed him of the creeping cobwebs spun by secular influence.

When he’d first arrived, his native inclination had been to shove the solid, narrow bed to the far wall of his tiny chamber, with its weathered bedside table and oil lamp. The small washstand with its beaten copper water basin and fuzzed out mirror took residence opposite the bed. He’d asked for the sofa, rug, and loveseat to be removed. It was all too much frill for an honest man of God.

He kneeled in the middle of the creaky wooden floor and crossed himself, fingers poised from forehead to heart, from left shoulder shoulder to right, as he bent to say his rosary. He clutched the warm, carved strand of glass beads in his hands, passing each stone between his long fingers as his lips fluttered in muted prayer. The glass clacked in ominous rhythm, tiny vitreous soldiers marching to war. The storm lamp flickering in the windowsill cast a golden band of light across his face, drawn in concentration and reverence.

His cell phone rang.

Father Neal fumbled to extract it from within his deep black robes. He glared as he held it to his ear. His voice was grainy from disuse as he uttered, “Bishop Cohen.”

“Father Neal,” the old man spoke, cobwebby and caulic. The young priest could hear the man unburden his lips with a handkerchief. “Forgive me for the late hour.”

“Yes, of course.” The flame in the lamp guttered but remained alight.

“I’m afraid the nature of our correspondence this evening is dark,” came Bishop Cohen’s raspy, accented lament. “It seems your particular skills might be direly needed, I’m afraid.” A frigid gasp of air blustered in through the open window, ice cold claws that tore at Father Neal’s clothes. His chest grew tight. His hand was a clammy hook where it grasped his rosary.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” he murmured numbly. “I understand.”

 

“How long has he been this way?” Father Neal murmured through unfeeling lips. She’d led him this far into the house, clearly unable to take him the rest of the way. Unable or unwilling. His hand froze above the door handle as he gazed down on the poor woman, her frazzled grey hair, her apron as wrinkled as the hands that had wound the cloth into knots.

“He’s been… unresponsive… for hours,” she spoke bravely, but her eyes belied the deep fissures in her courage that sprung leaks down her tired face. “Jim’s restrained him, but now, he’s…” She swayed and grasped at his dark coat. “Please, Father. Can you help him?” He soothed her hands and returned them to her sides. 

“The Lord guides and protects all His flock, Diane,” he answered by rote, breathlessly turning to the pine door that separated his sanity from his parochial obligation. He whispered, “Pray for His guidance.”

 

The sunlight was bright and cheerful in the McLaughlins’ sitting room, falling in laughing cascades through the crocheted ivory curtains, brightening faded settees and a nicked and scarred coffee table. His tea was bitter and tepid and too sweet, but he sipped it with a grateful smile at the weary couple watching him from across the table. 

“Father, we’re so grateful you could come,” Mr. McLaughlin finally said, straining in his seat as impatience strong-armed propriety. “It’s our son, Rhett.”

“Yes, Bishop Cohen informed me of his… situation,” he answered, resting his chipped cup and saucer on the coffee table. “Where is the young man now?” A floorboard creaked in the doorway behind him, and Mr. McLaughlin gazed above the priest’s shoulder with steeled eyes and a grimace. A sickly chill crept oozing up Father Neal’s scalp.

“Father Neal,” came a low, pleased voice. “How glorious that we finally meet!” The priest’s stomach twisted. He wiped his palms against his slacks as he cleared his throat.

“Won’t you join us?” Father Neal asked coolly, pale eyes drawn to Mrs. McLaughlin’s ashen face.

“With pleasure, Father,” he drawled, and the priest clocked the slow, creaking footsteps until his eyes were drawn, against his will, to the towering man that had joined them. The bearded farmhand was nearly a head taller than the beanstalk of a priest, a thing almost unheard of by the man’s own reckoning. Yet, it wasn’t the man’s body that overwhelmed Father Neal. He drew in a shaky breath as he took in the terrible aura that radiated from him. The hair rose on Father Neal’s arms. He took another sip of tea. Rhett sank bonelessly into the tall, wingback chair at the head of the coffee table, his linen shirt parted where it was unbuttoned. The priest cast a silent prayer to his God for strength and wisdom. An almost imperceptible smirk appeared on Rhett’s dark lips. 

“Your parents are very concerned for your mental health,” Father Neal said, nearly stammering under the sting of Rhett’s sharp eyes, but the pain abated when Rhett directed his gaze to the far wall, where hung an ornate ceramic cross. 

“Well, isn’t that sweet of them?” He roughly purred, and Father Neal tremored at the disquieting thought that the man didn’t sound wholly unlike a beast laying wait in its lair.

 

His heart surged in his chest as he finally brought himself to open the door to the sitting room.  
Long before he could bring his eyes to meet the sight waiting on the armchair near the fireplace, Father Neal watched own his skin mottle as a chill ripped through him. The far wall now stood undecorated but for a single nail sticking through the faded floral wallpaper, and the room was far colder than the Father had expected. Too cold. Unseasonably frigid. His growing panic showed its quivering hand in the gusts of steam issuing from his lungs.

“Father Neal,” Mr. McLaughlin gasped, clinging to the loose end of the rope he’d used to tie his son to the armchair. Rhett cackled furiously as he fought and struggled against his bonds. 

“Oh, Daddy, why are you being so mean?” Rhett moaned, writhing serpentine, dancing with the ropes that bit into his skin. Mr. McLaughlin swayed, snot running down his chin, and openly sobbing, he held up the ceramic cross, pressing it against Rhett’s forehead. His son’s bare toes curled into the floorboards, moans stabbing through the walls as his body went taut as a drawn bow. 

“Stop that!” Father Neal shouted, clutching his satchel to his chest. “You’re going to hurt him!” Mr. McLaughlin’s eyes were a little wild. He looked up at Father Neal and shook his head defiantly as tears tracked soot down his face. He pressed the crucifix even harder into Rhett’s skin. He shrieked and pulled back when the ceramic cracked and exploded to dust in his hand. Rhett fell slack against the sofa, gasping and smiling giddily, as Mr. McLaughlin retreated to Father Neal’s side.

“Mmm, that was just glorious,” he sighed, panting for breath. “Promise you’ll do it again.” He flashed his stormy eyes to the priest, and Father Neal’s heart plummeted into his stomach. His whole body went solid, frozen in crippling shock. There were swirling, inky black mires where Rhett’s eyes used to be.

“Mr. McLaughlin,” the priest choked. “Go join your wife in the hall.” The old man faltered. “Go!”

 

Mr. and Mrs. McLaughlin had long fallen silent in the presence of their son. He sprawled in the wingback chair and watched them with unsmiling eyes for a quivering moment. His neck bent with a feline grace as he spoke to the priest, “And what, pray tell, has dearest Momsie and Pop in such a tizzy?”

Father Neal swallowed hard, absently running his fingers along the beads of the rosary in his trouser pocket. He glanced at the young man’s parents. “Rhett, have you been your normal self lately? What I mean to say is... well, have you been experimenting with drugs or alcohol?”

“Oh, dear,” Rhett sighed. “What on Earth have they been telling you, Father?” He smiled, and his teeth positively gleamed in the fading afternoon sunlight.

“Rhett, honey,” Mrs. McLaughlin suddenly cried out. “You’ve been acting so strange lately. You don’t even _sound_ like yourself anymore...” She burst into tears. “It’s those people you’ve been socializing with. I told you they were no good from the start.”

“You’ve made new friends?” Father Neal asked quietly. “Tell me about them.” Rhett gave a dark, self-indulgent chuckle.

“ _Mother_ ,” he spat out, “thinks they’re the wrong crowd. They’re not good, God-fearing, salt-of-the-Earth types. They’re whores and Devil-worshippers.” He laughed, but then his forehead gathered in false sincerity. “Mother thinks they’re leading me astray, Father, dragging me down with them into the abyss of hedonism and sin.” Mr. McLaughlin wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders as she fought for breath.

“And is she right?” Father Neal whispered.

“Oh, _Lord_ , I certainly hope so.”

 

“Father Neal.” Rhett’s voice rasped like sandpaper over stripped nerves. He was slumped against his bonds, head hanging heavy as though asleep or dead. “Finally, I’ve got you alone.” His laughter billowed forth like moths scattering up an ashy flue. He peered into the priest’s eyes and flashed a starving grin. “All to myself.”

“You may think that,” Father Neal replied shakily, “but you’d be wrong.” The priest gave the slumped figured a wide berth as he set down his leather valise on the coffee table. “God is here in this very room with us.” Rhett’s grin deepened.

“Maybe so,” he answered softly. “Would you like to test that theory, Father?”

“Only fools think they can test God,” he replied coolly. The light shifted in Rhett’s eyes. Father Neal’s courage faltered for a brief second as he felt tendrils of his mind reaching out to meet the man in front of him. He dragged his thoughts free and opened his valise, laying out the tools of his trade between the two of them; silver crucifix, Holy water, Bible. He withdrew a purple stole and placed it upon his neck, draping it carefully across the breast of his surplice.

Rhett’s head fell forward suddenly, and his brow slackened in sleep. Father Neal hesitated, then he reached out to touch the man’s shoulder. His fingertips had scarcely brushed against the cool linen of the shirt when Rhett’s head shot up suddenly, revealing grey eyes wide with panic, an expression of fear and confusion scratched across his face.

“Father!” He gasped. “Father Neal, they’ve gone crazy! They’re keeping me prisoner. You gotta call the police! They’re crazy! Please!” Tears ran riot down his cheeks, and he shook with the effort not to sob. His eyes beseeched the compassion of the Father. The priest stood before the man now, fingers hovering in midair, stunned. “Father, please! I’m begging you.”

 

“And you’re sure of some manner of demonic possession?” Bishop Cohen asked grimly. His voice crackled over the line. This far out in the country, Father Neal knew cell reception would only be spotty at best. The McLaughlin farmhouse disappeared behind him as he drove down the dirt path back to his cottage on the far side of the island.

“The whole house reeks of some kind of manifestation,” Father Neal answered. “And it’s more than an infestation, Your Excellency.” He stammered, wetting his dry lips. “And I believe it’s moved past the stage of oppression. The presence is very much focused on their son. I…” He swallowed rising bile. “I believe the manifestation has progressed into profound demonic possession.” Bishop Cohen sighed heavily on the other line.

“Very well,” he rasped. “I shall contact Father Cave, though it may be at least a week before he can arrive to assist you.”

“Pray that Rhett lasts that long.”

 

“I can’t call the police, Rhett,” Father Neal finally replied, withdrawing from the man’s presence. “You know why I can’t.” An unholy light flickered in Rhett’s horrible eyes, and he smirked.

“Oh, but Father, I’m just a poor, sweet, innocent farm boy,” he mewled. He slowly drew his full bottom lip between his teeth and leaned back as much as his ropes would allow, long legs straining against his bonds. “And here you’ve got me all tied up at your mercy. Why, anything could happen.” Father Neal ground his jaw together, back rigid as he scrambled in his bag for his tattered, leather-bound copy of _De Exorcismis et Supplicationibus Quibusdam_.

“ _Kýrie eléison_.” The words fell like honey from his lips, and immediately, his nerves were balmed. “ _Christe eléison_.”

“Mmm, Greek,” Rhett moaned, eyes flickering to the back of his skull. “How very _fucking_ droll, Father.” The priest flicked through the book, settling on a page as he lifted his silver crucifix.

“ _Dómine Iesu Christe, Verbum Dei Patris, Deus univérsae creatúrae_ ,” he uttered, and a guttural laugh ripped its way through Rhett’s body.

“Oh, now you’re just fucking with me, Father,” he growled, voice warping into something monstrous as he struggled against his ropes. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. If I suck your cock, Father, will you let me go?”

“... _Qui sanctis Apóstolis tuis potestátem dedísti d-d-d-daemónia_ …” Father Neal read firmly, grip white on the book and cross, undeterred by the way Rhett’s growls were transmogrifying into determined grunts as he writhed on the chair

“ _Daemónia_?” He barked, devolving into a cackling, beast-like thing. “Is that what you think this is?” Father Neal swayed, gazing upon Rhett murderously. “Come on, Father. Untie me. I bet it’s been a long time since someone touched your cock. Are you even _allowed_ to masturbate?” Father Neal shoved the crucifix towards Rhett, and the bearded man flinched and hissed as though he’d been burned.

“S-s-subiciéndi in nómine,” Father Neal stammered, “tuo et… et super omnem calcándi virtútem inimíci… inimíci… inimíci....” He frantically scanned the page for the next line, but his eyes were swimming and his hands shook brutally.

“Ah, what a pity, Father,” Rhett murmured. “Did you lose your place? I hate it when that happens.” The priest sent a wild prayer up to God, begging for clarity and strength. Rhett dissolved into laughter. “You know he can’t help you, just the same as he can’t erase those thoughts that plague you well into the night.” Father Neal’s jaw clenched tight, his blue eyes flashing fire and danger to the man bound to the chair.

“You don’t know-”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Rhett whispered tenderly, toying with the fabric on the armrests. “We both know he made you that way, _Link_.” The priest’s mouth dropped open, his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor.

“ _In nomine Patris, et Filii_ …” He gasped.

“The only difference is that I love you for it,” Rhett said, his voice a gentle caress, made physically tangible as Father Neal felt his hair stirring against his scalp. “Your God is a capriciously evil maniac, high as a kite on his own grandeur.”

“That’s a lie!” The priest gasped, a horrible, oppressive, invisible weight settling high on his chest.

“He sent Eve, innocent and childlike, to the feet of the greatest temptor of all,” Rhett growled, unnatural. It resonated in the walls. Heat radiated off him in oppressive waves. “ _She_ , who knew nothing of suffering, nothing of consequences. _She_ , whose greatest sin was the taint of her innocence: curiosity. She merely wanted answers, and he _cursed her_ for it, and all those who came after her.” His hands were weighed down on the sofa, pinned as though by lead weights. He couldn’t breathe. “Tell me, Link, is that the kind of god who hears your prayers with magnanimity? Is that a just god?” Father Neal’s body strained, poured with sweat, thrummed with a fear that filled the room with its stench.

“... _Et Spiritús Sancti_...”

“No, Link,” Rhett said benevolently. “That’s the work of a god who does not love you, a god who is blind to your suffering, a god who would knows nothing of the pleasures of the flesh nor the pursuits of the intellect.”

“You’re wrong,” he cried, his face wet and stony.

“And this Christ you worship,” Rhett sighed, shaking his head in pity, “I knew him well, long ago. He was insufferable.” Link cried out, a sudden burst of fury and pain guiding him to fight against the power Rhett exerted over him.

“You’re a blasphemer!” Link grunted, falling hard to his knees.

“Yes, Father, how clever you are,” Rhett whispered, smiling. “It’s all lies. Every word of it. None of it’s true. I’m a silver-tongued deceiver.” He threw his head back in cascading laughter.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven-”

“Exactly,” Rhett purred. “In Heaven. Don’t you think the matters of the flesh are best left to those of us who still remember how to feel them?” Link’s heart beat a tell-tale rhythm against his ribs, and Rhett unleashed a long-suffering sigh. “Alright, enough of this pointless game.” With that, he rolled his body forward, and his restraints fell away, useless bits of singed rope falling down around bare feet.

“Rhett,” Link gasped in desperation. “I know you’re still there. Listen to my-” Rhett shook his head slowly and moved his arms in a swooping motion. The furniture in the room went flying towards the walls, smashing into splinters and torn bits of fabric before thundering to the ground all at once.

“Rhett’s not home, baby, but you can leave a message,” he purred, stalking ever closer to his prey.

“Rhett, I know you can hear me!” Link implored, gazing up at the powerful specimen that now towered over him. His body sang with all manner of action and reaction, and he was so damn thirsty.

“You know that’s not my name,” Rhett rumbled, low and honeyed. He reached out one wide hand and tenderly palmed the priest’s cheek.

“Rhett.” It was a plaintive and surrendering plea. Link’s skin glowed where Rhett’s hand soothed. He slipped his fingers into the priest’s greying black hair and petted him indulgently.

“Come, now,” he said, soft like a lover. “You know it. Speak it.” The tears fell down Link’s cheeks anew, his face screwing with shame and forfeit. Rhett smoothed his thumb across the tears, spreading them across Link’s lips. The creeping wilderness of his touch wrought bright sparks of sensation throughout Link’s exhausted frame. “Speak it, Father.”

“Belial,” he choked, thick and wet with tears.

“Very good, Father,” he sighed dreamily. “I was worried you’d use ‘Lucifer,’ as I’ve always found ‘Belial’ to be so much more intimate, don’t you think?” He slipped his hands beneath Link’s armpits and easily lifted him onto his feet. He pressed an adoring kiss to Link’s brow and bent to press his lips to Link’s ear. He whispered, “Now, I ask that you make a choice.”

“I can’t-”

“I stand before you as the only god who knows your true self,” he spoke. “I ask you now to fall on your knees before me, Father. Let me teach you how to pray to a god who loves you.” Link stared up numbly into the face of Satan and made the most natural and easy decision of his life.

He fell.

“I am thy Father, which art made flesh before thee,” Rhett murmured, guiding Link’s hands to slide open the button of his slacks. “Hallowed be my name,” and Link guided the fabric down his thighs, intaking a single, shuddering breath at the sacred flesh laid bare before him. “My Kingdom come,” Rhett went on, voice hitching as Link slid his mouth over the dark head of his cock, “my will be done in earth as it is in hell.” Rhett’s mouth fell open and his head tipped back as earthly bliss descended upon him. Link burned with a profound spiritual discovery, his Lord’s fingers weaving through his hair, pulling him closer. “I give thee this day thy daily bread,” he groaned, and Link hollowed his cheeks, opening up his body and spirit to the needs he was thus ordained to satisfy. “And forgive thee of thy trespasses,” Rhett sighed, “as thou forgiveth those who trespass against thee.” Link suckled the salty offering from Rhett’s cockhead and plunged headlong into the profane joy of worshiping with his hands and mouth. “I will lead thee into temptation and deliver thee unto Evil,” he grunted, thrusting his himself deep into Link’s eager mouth. “For _mine_ is the Kingdom.” His toes curled into the floor just as Link’s tongue curled against the thick vein that ran the length of his cock. “And the power.” He moaned long and brittle. “And the _glory_.” He pulled Link’s hair hard and shoved in deep again, and Link shook with the ecstasy of being thus prized, choking down every inch Rhett slid down his throat. “Forever and ever.” With a fistful of salt and pepper hair, Rhett pried the priest off his thick cock.

“ _Amen_ ,” Link groaned, eyes blown wide with desire, wide mouth dripping with saliva and precome.

“That’s glorious, my sweet child,” Rhett gasped, edging away from Link’s kneeling form. “I find you pleasing in my sight.” He lifted his hands broadly into the air, appearing to Link every inch the most sacred angel of praise ever devised by God. “Now, I will teach you to worship at my altar.” A bone-rending whorl of radiating power swooped across the room, and Link felt his limbs go suddenly weightless as he floated up from the floor, hovering in the center of the room, his eyes glued to the ceiling above him. His skin tingled with the undeniable witchcraft that held him in thrall, and suddenly he knew that his clothing had transfigured into creeping black bonds that secured themselves around his wrists and ankles. He could feel Belial now, within him and around him, caressing every inch of his needy body as it floated light as a feather, taut as a drawbridge.

He was laid utterly bare before the King of Babylon, bound and denuded and desperate to serve his will.

Rhett shimmered into existence between his spread, naked, lean thighs, with eyes that spoke of an eternal flame and hunger. He bent, brushed reverent kisses across Link’s hips, his inner thighs, his puckered rosebud. He whispered Black magic against Link’s opening, and a lick of warmth and comfort and slick flooded the silken hole. Strong hands dug into the flesh of Link’s hips, and Link keened. Rhett pressed his cockhead against that sacred offering, and he dragged Link up by the neck for a possessive soul kiss. “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Link cried out in profound joy and gratitude as his body accepted Rhett completely. Rhett’s warm arms wrapped around him, cradling him from the cold and swirling vortex that swept around them, ripping the whole world to shreds as Rhett thrust himself up into Link’s pliant core. “Please,” he whimpered, tears falling freely down his cheeks. Rhett kissed them all away as he pistoned his cock deep inside Link, giving him the pleasure that only a god could.

“Tell me you love me,” Rhett gasped.

“I love you, Belial,” Link murmured through slack lips, riding the shockwaves that rocked his very soul.

“Tell me you hold no other god before me,” Rhett hissed against the musky skin of Link’s neck.

“I beg you,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Tell me!” He shouted, slamming hard up into Link’s slick hole, hands clawing dull slashes across the skin of Link’s back. 

“There is no god before you,” he wailed, balls tightening up against his body. “My Lord, I’m so close.” Rhett took mercy upon the man and uttered an incantation in a tongue long lost to time. Link screamed at the sensation of a thousand mouths sucking and pulling on the length of his dripping cock.

“Are you ready, my servant?”

“I’m ready, my Lord.”

“ _Come for me_.”

Link shrieked in ecstasy and agony, and as his cock poured come in three slashes across his naked body, the room filled with a flickering red light that overwhelmed what little sense he had left. The windows shattered around them, spraying glass across the room. The last thing Link remembered before everything went black was Rhett throwing his head back and howling like the very hounds of hell themselves as he filled the priest with his demonic release.

 

The dust cleared in pink, shimmering whorls as dawn came upon them, lighting the eerie tableau through broken shards of window panes. Mr. McLaughlin had slammed into the door shoulder-first thrice before the hinges gave way, and he hauled himself through the scattered debris on the floor.

Rhett lay crumpled in the middle of the room, a balled up scrap of a man.

His mother shrieked and came rushing to his side. She stumbled and grasped at his shoulders, crying, “Rhett, honey! Wake up!” She shook him, frantic and unmeasured. He jolted to life and blearily gazed up at her wet face.

“Mom,” he rasped, lamely scrambling to sit up. “What’s goin’ on?” She threw her arms around him and held tight, fingers clawing at the tattered remains of his shirt.

“Are you better?” She sobbed. “Did he fix you?”

“Mama, please don’t cry!” He whispered, smoothing her hair as she clung to him. “It’s gonna be okay, Mama.”

“Father Neal,” Mr. McLaughlin gasped, bending down to pick shards of broken glass from the priest’s immaculately restored clothing. The priest hauled himself up from the floor and primly dusted away the debris from his slacks. “Are you hurt, Father? Should I call a doctor?”

Father Charles Neal licked his cracked lips and smiled. “Oh, don’t be silly,” he drawled, eyes downcast as though in prayer. “I feel… Oh, what’s the word?” He laughed. “I feel _glorious_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!
> 
> Thanks to [awkwardkermitfrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardkermitfrog), the reigning Mistress of Horror in the Rhink fandom, for her useful pointers on how to write spooooky stuff.
> 
> You can find me [over here on tumblr](http://mei-ren-yu.tumblr.com).


End file.
